


Charm

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-29
Updated: 2005-03-29
Packaged: 2018-12-27 04:10:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12073254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: This is just some of Brian's thoughts as he's getting ready one morning.





	Charm

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Stepping out of the shower is like stepping out of your skin. The cold air sears through your freshly scorched body. It's just like stepping outside of the bathroom and feeling his eyes fall upon you. You're completely vulnerable to everything those eyes have to say about you. You know with that glare he praises you and condems you all at the same time. He finds every flaw that you call perfection.

Maybe he's right; maybe you won't always have your beauty, but you'll always have your charm, right? Why doesn't he care about the fact that your aren't _absolutely perfect_. That had always been your way out. Perfection; the epitome of sex, everything every man wanted to be, but could never live up to; so what does he see beneath all of that? For so long you had thought there was nothing beneath your shell, yet somehow, he does. You take a long look in the mirror and notice the fine lines around your mouth and eyes, and you examine every one of them. Some people age with beauty and you wonder if that's going to be true for you as well.

All of his stuff surrounds yours in the bathroom. His toothbrush is right next to yours, but slightly less clean; his gel, wait, he's been using your gel lately, so it's still yours right? The word "our" shoots through your mind. You start to push it out, and then it hits you like the cold air hit you when you stepped out of the shower. No matter how much you try to deny it, he's woven himself into almost every aspect of your life; you're committed to him. At first, he was _just_ the guy you came home to fuck. Then he was the guy you _yearned_ to come home and fuck, and now, he's the guy you _need_ to come home and fuck. He's gotten under your skin and you kind of don't mind it.

You went to bed last night with him laying right beside you, then when you woke up, your limbs were tangled together. You wonder when you stopped minding his touch at vulnerable times like that. You pick up your moisturizer and begin to smooth it over your face. At least make some use out of staring at yourself in the mirror. If he only knew what goes on in your mind. Some how you think he already does. Maybe that's the reason your push him away so much, almost constantly. He knows you and that scares the fuck out of you. No one has ever been or seen that deep into your soul. Perhaps the devil gave you a second chance on that title he has on your soul.

As for now, you have to go outside of this bathroom and face his pondering eyes. There's always a question he has to ask you; a thought he wants to pass by you; or just something he wants to say. But most of the time, it's those looks he gives you that makes you shudder. You prepare yourself, as you do every morning that he doesn't shower with you, to face his wandering eyes as you emerge from the bathroom donning only a towl. You reach for the door handle as you grasp your composure that you always have in front of others. Always a show for your Mr. Kinney. The world is a stage and you, well, you're the main star right?

He's sitting at the cpmuter desk, tinkering with a sketch of some sort. He's not really into it, with his right hand holding the pencil slightly drawing and his left hand propping is head up. He hasn't noticed you yet, but you watch as he moves the pencil from his right hand to his left and he stretches out his right. You feel a piece of the ice around your heart chip off as a glimpse of Prom forces its way through your mind. You walk over to your closet to pick out your day's attire and he still wouldn't have noticed you had it been for the fact that you stubbed your toe on the corner of the bed and yelled "Shit!" in a hushed whisper. He looked up at you and those daunting blue eyes shot their way through you. He's laughing, and to be truthful, that makes your little toe not hurt so bad. You glare at him, but he's relentless, absolutely relentless. You take pride in that.

He's not even looking at you, but he knows the inner struggle you are going through looking through your closet. Different day, same situation. "Wear the red, it looks better on you; I promise." 

You turn around and he's back to lazily sketching. You take another look at the red shirt with its matching red tie right next to it. You decide look on the other end of your closet space to find your pants. 

"I like the black ones with the very light pinstripe. Plus, your ass looks really good in them." 

You turn around again and still, he's not really paying attention and you still haven't picked up anything and layed it to the side to put on later. You're a bit frustrated by now, but you just move to your shoes. 

"The Prada's. I have a feeling its going to be a long day on the job Mr. Kinney and you said yourself that those are your most comfortable work shoes." 

You don't even bother to turn around this time. You know he's still sketching and laughing at you on the inside. You torrently pick up every article he picked out and neatly placed them on the bed. You walk over to pick out your underwear. 

"How..." 

" _I_ can pick out my own underwear thank you very much." It came out like you were aggrivated at him, but really, they're all the same to you. Either the black ones, or the white ones. He finally looks up and smiles at you.

Those eyes, they are still glaring through your facade that you've created and it still burns all the way down. But there's something about him. Maybe it's his charm; but whatever it is, it still makes you a little uneasy when he looks at you. Like you are walking on eggshells, or hot coals. That's what it feels like to you as you slip into the clothes that he so nonchalantly picked out; hot coals. It warms you to the core, but it still hurts a little on the outside. Then as you get used to it, it doesn't seem to hurt so bad, it's actually quite comfortable and you're kind of okay with that. He's looking at you, and you wonder to yourself why you were so worried about those eyes in the bathroom. They're the same eyes you see looking at you every day and the same eyes that praise you and condemn you at the same time; the same eyes that sear all the way through your bones; the same eyes that know you without even looking at you. You feel a slight a smile come across your face because you know that you'll still have that same fear overcome you the next time you end up showering alone.


End file.
